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It's late. The hour she loves most. It seems that now, Paris โ with its night-veiled boulevards, is most perfectly itself. Reminding her of a sensual woman wrapped in dark cloaks, dreaming dreams of illicit lovers, the odour of bodies, the paleness of flesh, the pulse of breath, laughter and wine. Faces reach out to touch her. She moves stylishly, with conscious hauteur. The simple black dress contouring her, concealing and revealing in exact proportions, if it was any tighter they'd see the seams of her underwear, a punctuation of neat pearl buttons down the front.
She's class. They know it, and she knows it. She chooses the privacy of a table in an alcove from where she can see the movement of the clientele, hear the soft jazz drift. A short while later, the waiter brings a bottle Tollot-Beaut's '78 Corton-Bressandes with a crystal glass, indicating a man at a separate table.
He smiles and nods. She returns the smile coolly, with reserve, but her tongue already tingles with the heat of the liquor. Unconsciously she visualises their tongues in moist embrace. And for a moment she can't breathe for the pressure of their imagined bodies clasped together. Her dreams are populated with fantasy lovers. Perhaps tonight she can take those dreams further?
She looks back at him, forcing herself to smile more openly. Indicating for him to join her. As if this is a rendezvous. A game. Something they've worked out beforehand. He bows in a mock-chivalrous gesture that has her laughing, and he sits opposite her.
